Kiss
by VulcanCheesecake
Summary: AU Oneshot. Jim Kirk is working as a hooker on the backstreets of San Francisco. He's not really happy, but it's constant. Until someone comes along and changes all that.


Jim Kirk doesn't kiss. He does just about anything else the drunken, needy men on the backstreets of San Francisco ask of him, as long as they pay him enough, but he won't kiss them. He knows it's stupid, but he thinks kissing is something a little too intimate to give to anyone. After all he's been degraded and abused; he wants to keep something special. His 'friends' think it's stupid too; why would he pass on opportunities for money? But they aren't really his friends. They're people he knows in the same boat as him. But they're not. He's different. Jim still hates this life. It's been three months since he left Iowa. He's three months older, but it feels like thirty years. 19 years old today and he's celebrating in a strip club. Except _he's _the one dancing on that pole, licking his lips seductively, wriggling out of those tight black jeans. And inside he's disappointed in everything he's become. Inside he's cracking a little bit more. But he learned long ago not to show your emotion. It only makes it worse. He's better at hiding feelings than some of the Vulcans that come to see him. He's good at figuring people out, so it's easy to give them a good time.

Until the stranger comes. Jim has a lot of regulars, and even new faces are pretty similar to the old ones; same people, same desires, same fucks in the back room. But this guy…he wears a Starfleet uniform, but he's different to most of the 'authority' figures Jim gets on his knees for. That's what they all think. They have a uniform; they're better than the backwater scum here. But they're not. Jim doesn't trust anyone, least of all Starfleet. His stepfather was a commander. Starfleet didn't even bother to check him out properly, even when Jim turned to them in desperation; social workers were all fooled, doctors never even bothered to look there, they believed the stories of falling out of trees to explain the scars and bruises on Jim's torso. Starfleet practically told him he was wrong. Even when, eyes burning with shame, he let them examine him properly. A commander, raping his stepson? That couldn't be right. So it wasn't. Obviously. Jim was sent away with a metaphorical pat on the head and told not to bother them again basically. It was "We'll be in touch". That was when he finally left. Creeping out with some clothes and as much money as he could find around the house in the middle of the night, and this time going far away. The only place he could think of was San Francisco. Frank wouldn't look for him there. Jim's tried to run away before, but he's always been found and dragged back, so he went _right _out. And ended up doing exactly the same as he had back home, because even a garage doesn't want a scrawny teenager with more bruises than credits. At least this time he's in charge of himself, and can get out if he wants. Or at least he tells himself that. But even he knows it isn't true, and fights against the despair on the fake-leather sofa in the back room of the joint he works.

So here he is. 19 today and swaying his hips in front of a blueshirt who can't be much older than he is. Jim thinks he has this guy sorted. He's one of those tricks who feels he needs to reinforce his masculinity by being rough. Jim sighs. He hates those tricks; they remind him of his past. He knows it's stupid and clichéd, but something niggling at him feels this guy is different. He _looks _different, younger, cleaner, more morals. And vaguely familiar. And handsome; that makes a nice change.

So Jim makes a bit of an effort; this guy probably has more credits than he needs and has more needs than he can credit. And Jim has him hooked. For all he can't do, Jim can dance. He can work with people. And he's working this guy; he can _see _how turned on he is. When he finishes his dance, and picks up his clothes from the stage, along with the night's credits, pasting over the embarrassment inside, he winks at the blueshirt and beckons him to follow.

He leads the guy into the back room, taking him into the partition that's his, and motions him to sit down as he pulls his jeans back on. The Starfleet man smiles, a genuine smile, and throws Jim off guard for a moment. The guy has a hard-on and he looks like he wants to make conversation.

"Let me help you with that," Jim drawls seductively, taking a seat next to the blueshirt and trailing his fingers down his stomach towards his waistband. The guy takes a deep breath and stops Jim's hands, leaning closer.

Jim stops him with a finger to his lips. "I don't kiss." He sounds cold, but he's not going to explain himself. As if a punter is actually interested in what _Jim _feels; it's his job to make _them _feel better about their pathetic little lives. The stranger says nothing else and backs off a little, letting Jim's hands wander. "Come back to my place?" he suddenly asks, making Jim jump.

He wants to refuse; he hasn't gone home with anyone before, that's how people like him get hurt or even killed, but he still wants to believe the small part of him that instinctively reaches out for this man. "We'll see," he says, trying to keep his act up, but faltering a little. The stranger nods, he recognises Jim's doubts. "What can I get you, darlin'?" Jim purrs, getting down to business. He doesn't like it, but it's what he knows, and he needs something he knows right now; this is messing with his head. He takes a swig of the bottle he always has handy, ignoring the burning, revelling in the temporary numbness it brings.

This guy might be different, but he came here for the same reasons everyone else did. "Everything," the blueshirt replies, succumbing to his desires, even though he's tried hard to give himself a 'nice guy' image. Jim smiles knowingly, and his hands wander idly to the fly of the other man's uniform, undoing it before the guy even really knows what's happening.

Jim hands him the bottle, and together they have a few more swigs of it before Jim reaches for a condom that he insists the punters wear. He tries to protect himself as much as possible. The blueshirt is breathing heavily now, just another trick for Jim, who knows exactly what to do.

He seductively shimmies out of the jeans he put back on and stands still for a while, letting the guy look him over, until he starts biting his bottom lip and his own hands start to stray. Jim smiles, a lecherous grin that tugs at his soul to put on. It's not him, but it's what they think he's become. He hates to think what his real father, or his brother, or his mother, would think of him if they saw what he was doing now. So he pushes those thoughts away. It's too early to be a melancholy drunk.

He strides forward, swaying his hips like he does when he's dancing, calling himself names like he does every night, just to keep some of the old Jim in him. He liked the old Jim. "You slut. You pathetic little whore," his mind hisses at him, as he straddles this helpless punter's lap.

It hurts, it always does, but he just takes another drink and holds on to this guy's shoulders. Jim hears a sharp intake of breath; he has him now. The stranger takes a moment to settle into Jim's rhythm before his hands start to wander again. He rubs them up and down Jim's skinny torso, tracing the barely visible outline of his ribs before pulling Jim into him more, and running long, cool fingers up his spine. Jim sits back up again, pulling out of this man's grip, because it feels different, it feels _good_, and Jim doesn't want it to be tainted by this low-life cheap fuck.

"Easy…Bones!" Jim half-whispers with a laugh to hide the real reason he broke away, nicknaming the punter without really thinking. The blueshirt seems to understand, or at least accepts it, the way he accepted how Jim wouldn't kiss. He lost himself again, before he surprised Jim by moving his hands to Jim's hard-on. The men Jim pleases often forget that Jim's actually a human being. Jim finds it hard to think of himself when he's 'working', but he's grateful for what this guy's doing for him, timing his skilled hands just right to Jim's rhythm. It's not long before Jim makes the newcomer lose it, following with some hesitation. Jim's instinct gets through the drunken haze he's in; telling him that this guy's different. Except, Jim isn't really drunk; the alcohol stopped affecting him weeks ago. Now it just numbs the pain a little, sometimes. The warm fuzzy haze in his brain is an afterglow.

As Jim pulls his jeans back on, the stranger gets it together enough to straighten his own uniform. "You've been awfully quiet, Bones," Jim announced; breaking the silence between them and using the nickname he had before. "They're usually chattier," he says, meaning the other tricks.

"How many?" the man says, slightly accusingly. Jim wants to pour his soul, to tell him it's been too long; he's lost count, but he can't. He doesn't trust this man yet, even though he's different.

"I want to know about you first."

"Will you come home with me? It's not far."

Jim hesitates again, and takes another swig from the bottle, ignoring the scalding taste of it. He sits cautiously next to the stranger on the faux leather sofa he's had so many cut-price fucks on, and feels a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"I understand." Those two words, spoken in that deep southern voice makes Jim half believe he really does. Jim needs something to hang on to, and he's tired of this life, so he nods, pulls on an old jumper and stands up. Even if this gets him killed, Jim decides he doesn't care. And he doesn't think it will; his instincts are the only thing he has any faith in these days. The trick smiles, a genuine smile. "In that case, I'm Leonard McCoy."

"James Kirk. I get called Jim mostly. Or at least I used to. Not too many people are interested in things such as my name." Jim permits himself a small smile, but he can tell that McCoy has seen his eyes darken. They wander back into the main bar together, the lady who owns the place is kicking out the last of the almost unconscious drunks. She smiles at Jim, but it isn't real. Not like McCoy's. To her, he's just another moneymaker. When they're outside, McCoy laces his strong fingers into Jim's, and he can feel callouses on the rough but gentle fingers. They look like a couple, and Jim doesn't look as much like some random prostitute that a guy felt sorry for.

"Tell me about yourself. Please."

Jim wants to know, because it feels good to be with this man, and Jim needs to feel good.

"Well…I was born and grew up in Georgia. Married a girl too young. I regret that, but not having a kid. I just can't believe it took me fifteen years to figure out I didn't _like _women that way. Started studying at the Starfleet academy and never looked back. I'm gonna be a Doctor on a starship. I like to fix things."

"That's…interesting…Doctor Bones." Jim mused. Maybe Bones _did _understand Jim's shitty life, seeing as his own had hardly been perfect.

"Tell me about yourself." Bones said as they drew up outside a big apartment building. "I only have a flat," he admitted, leading Jim up some stairs and into a three-roomed apartment, slightly messy.

"A perfect bachelor pad," Jim grinned as he stepped in. It wasn't much Jim knew, but after what he'd been sleeping on, it was like a penthouse.

"So. Tell me," McCoy instructed, more firmly this time.

"I…I can't…"

"Why?"

"If I do, it'll all be real and I'm scared I'll start crying and never stop."

"Oh, Jim," it's a comforting whisper now. "I'm here…"

"I don't even fucking _know _you," Jim says, dropping the other man's hand, voice raising slightly.

"No, but I'm all you have." Those words are so harshly true, that Jim knows he _will _tell this man. But it won't be easy. He sits down on the worn old sofa that's so much better than the one he's been using, and looks at his knees. He doesn't look up, but he knows Leonard has sat down next to him.

"It's my birthday today. Nineteen years old. Happy fucking birthday! At least I'm not 'celebrating' with _him_."

"Who's 'he'?"

"My stepfather. My Mom married someone else after my real Dad died." Jim's welling up, he can't help it, but he doesn't want to cry like a fucking pansy. He swallows hard.

"I was only ten. But this guy, Frank, thought I was cute. He said so. And demonstrated. I lost my virginity age 10! Almost every day he did it to me. Told me I deserved it because I was bad. Cute, but bad. He always covered up the bruises. Nobody else knew. Nobody would ever believe me. I even went to fucking Starfleet, he works for them, like my real Dad did, showed them, humiliated myself but even _they _didn't believe me. One of their officers couldn't possibly be raping his stepson. Not when he seems so nice in public. I lost all respect for Starfleet then."

And then Jim remembers something. Leonard _did _look familiar…he was there when Jim had pleaded his case. Helping the qualified doctor to gawk at him. "…you…you were _there! _You _saw!"_ Jim feels violated, for no reason really, considering what he does to guys, has done to this guy, but it stings anyway. He feels all the alcohol he's drunk rushing upwards, and looks at McCoy, eyes wide. As a trainee doctor, Bones understands, and points to a door, following Jim closely. He doesn't say anything, doesn't ask why, but his apology is conveyed with his fingers as they brush Jim's hair out of the way, hold still a burning forehead as Jim empties his stomach. The water on his face isn't just sweat. It isn't even his eyes watering because he's being sick, but Jim can pretend it is.

When he's finished throwing up, Bones hands Jim a toothbrush, and lets him clean himself up a bit. Jim's started talking now, he can't stop, so McCoy takes him back to the sofa, not interrupting, not judging, but putting an arm around Jim's quivering shoulders. "It's sad because I've always wanted to go into space. Ever since my Dad took me out into the back garden at night. I was about five, but he pointed out all the stars, told me their names, told me which ones he'd been to, what he'd done on his travels. I didn't see him so much, so it was special when he was at home. A few years later, he left for another exploration mission and never…" Jim swallows hard, furiously rubbing his eyes.

"No, it's okay. Let go," McCoy murmurs.

"He never came back." Jim's voice breaks and he leans into Bones, grabbing at his shoulder and holding on like he'll drown, he knows he will if he doesn't hold on. And the tears won't stop, they keep coming and Jim's reduced himself to this; a mess, but it was always waiting to happen, he thinks. "He never fucking came back, and my Mom married Frank and then all this shit happened to me. I should be studying at the academy right now, but what am I doing? Instead I'm letting people I don't know do anything they want to me. The worst thing is, I _know _what I'm doing, and I disgust myself. I'm still _Jim_. I haven't changed. I still want to go to space, but I can't and I'm too fucking scared to even kill myself! Why did my Dad have to go and fucking _die?! _Why couldn't he be more _careful!_" Jim knows how stupid he sounds, how childish, but he can't help it. Leonard still doesn't judge him, instead pulling him closer and putting arms around him properly, still tracing Jim's bones, living up to his nickname. He rocks Jim like he's a kid, promises he can stay here, because he can't exactly send him back out on the streets. Besides, it's more than feeling sorry for a kid. Well, Jim's hardly a kid; he's only three years younger than McCoy himself. Leonard's falling for him. He knows it's stupid to think about 'love at first sight,' and all that shit, but there's _something_ between them. "I _was _there when you came to Starfleet," McCoy murmurs into Jim's hair, "and I though you were so fucking beautiful, despite the scars. And brave. Hell, it sounds stupid, but you were. Not many people would actually admit to it." Jim only half hears what Leonard is saying, but he's soothed by that deep voice that sends ripples through his body. "I'm kinda glad I found you again. I just feel bad that I took advantage of you. You're just so fucking beautiful," McCoy repeats. Jim says nothing; there isn't anything _to_ say, and presses his face against Bones' chest; trying to stop the tears. "Can I ask one more thing, Jim?" Bones rumbles, and Jim nods. "Why don't you kiss?" Jim had been prepared for that, but there was turmoil in his mind.

"Because," he whispers at last,

"It's the only thing Frank _didn't _do to me. It's the only thing sacred I have, to save for someone I really care about."

And that's it. There's silence for a while longer; McCoy still rubbing Jim's back and rocking him gently.

Jim's almost asleep now; the night's exhausted him, and Leonard can tell. He raises Jim's face to his own, removing the last of the salt water from his face with his rough thumbs. Jim looks into his eyes, his mind so disorganised, but one thing is clear. He leans forward and captures Bones' lips with his own. It's a shy, gentle kiss; Jim's never done this before, but it's good.

McCoy understands not to push too far, and puts the tiniest pressure into the kiss, pulling a hand gently through Jim's mussed up hair. He stands and carries Jim, bridal style, to his bedroom (the only one but there's enough room in the bed for both of them), and lays him out on it. Jim's almost asleep, but he wriggles under the duvet, pulling McCoy in behind him. Those strong arms envelope Jim, and he feels safe, really safe, for the first time he can remember. He murmurs his thanks, and he's gone, no nightmares, no dreams, just a memory of the kiss. Leonard rests his chin on one of Jim's shoulders, and they both know this is how it's going to be from now on.


End file.
